Only the Brave
by allthingsdecent
Summary: After Bombshells, House sticks up for Cuddy at a bar—with disastrous results.
1. Chapter 1

Only the Brave

**Sorry for the onslaught of fics lately. I've had lots of free time on my hands. Just for the record, my muse is completely unpredictable, so I could go into an extended dry spell any day now. Anyway, this is another post Bombshells fic. No Dominika, cause I just wasn't in the mood. (Sigh). This is an exploration of House's physical handicap and how he feels emasculated by it, something the show really didn't touch on that much. A little angsty after all the fluff I've been posting lately. Should be a two-parter.- atd**

"I'm outta here," House said, grabbing his coat.

Wilson looked up, saw Cuddy entering the bar.

"I honestly had no idea she'd be here," Wilson said.

"It's a hospital happy hour," House said. "She's the hospital dean. Makes sense. . . See ya!"

He started toward the door.

"If you leave now, she'll think she drove you away."

"And she'd be right. She is driving me away."

"Do you really want to give Cuddy that much power?"

House stopped, scowled a bit. He looked at Wilson, then glanced quickly at Cuddy, who was saying hi to one of the nurses.

"Alright, one more drink," he said, sitting back down. "You're buying, needless to say."

"Needless to say," Wilson said gamely, fishing for his wallet.

"Hi guys."

They looked up. Cuddy was standing over their table, with a nervous smile.

"Hi Cuddy," Wilson said.

It was awkward for Wilson now that his two best friends weren't talking. When they were dating, he had never really considered the personal consequences of their (inevitable) breakup. But the hostile nature of the split dictated that he had to pick sides. He was definitely on Team House, both because he genuinely felt Cuddy's breakup had been abrupt and unwarranted and because he knew House needed him more than she did. Still, he and Cuddy still talked, and even occasionally snuck out for a quick lunch. For her part, she was glad Wilson was sticking by his friend. It made her worry about him less.

"Did that shirt shrink in the wash or are you just getting fat?" House said to her.

"Good to see you, too, House," she said dryly.

"I never said it was good to see you," House replied.

"So I guess joining you two is completely out of the question," Cuddy said.

"We're in the non-bitch section, so I'm afraid not," House said.

"House!" Wilson scolded.

"It's okay, Wilson. I see some colleagues I know at the bar. Goodnight." And she walked away.

House put his head in his hands.

"You don't have to be an asshole to her," Wilson said.

"Actually, I do," House said.

He watched Cuddy warily out of the corner of his eye, as Wilson bought their second round of drinks.

"Who's the goon talking to Cuddy?" House said.

Wilson looked over.

"That's Roscoe Davis, the new head of security," Wilson said. "I think he was a Navy SEAL or somethin'."

"Impressive," House said sarcastically.

"Hey, I happen to feel very secure at the hospital now," Wilson chuckled.

House kept watching them, while pretending that he wasn't.

"He's hitting on her," he finally said, annoyed.

"Guys hit on Cuddy all the time, House. Get used to it."

"I know. But not when she's wearing such a tight top."

"Her top isn't that tight, House. You're imagining things. Let's play pool."

House sighed, and followed Wilson to the pool table.

House usually destroyed Wilson at pool, but today he was too distracted by Roscoe Davis, former Navy SEAL, to play well. Twice, he prematurely scratched the 8-ball, because he was glancing at the bar. Cuddy was beginning to look like she wanted to escape the conversation.

"He's starting to get on her nerves," House said.

"And you're starting to get on _my_ nerves," Wilson said.

House shrugged.

"Another game?" he said.

"You only want to play pool because the table is closer to the bar and you can keep a better eye on her."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, House. It's so. Why don't we get out of here?"

House glanced back at the bar. Roscoe wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Cuddy. She laughed, in a somewhat derisive way, and slid the napkin back to him. Grinning, he folded it and tried to put it in her pants pocket. She hit his hand, not entirely playfully.

"You go ahead," House said cagily. "I think I'll stay."

Wilson narrowed his eyes.

"What kind of trouble are you going to cause?"

"No trouble. I swear," House said. "You told me I needed to socialize more. So let me socialize more."

"The happy hour is over, House. The only one's left are Roscoe and Cuddy."

"I _am_ capable of socializing with people who don't work at the hospital."

"You're not capable of socializing at all," Wilson said.

"I'll be fine Jimmy. Get out of here." Something in his tone suggested this wasn't a request.

Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he said.

"Shoo!"

So Wilson left.

House bought another drink, went back to the table, and continued to surreptitiously watch Cuddy and Roscoe.

At one point, Cuddy got up to leave and Roscoe kind of grabbed her arm. He had a jokey demeanor so it was hard to really see him as a threat, but House didn't like the way this guy was manhandling her at all.

He saw Cuddy struggle a bit, still smiling, but getting a bit tenser.

"Shit," House said.

He got up from the table, limped over to the bar.

"Everything okay here?" he said.

Cuddy looked slightly embarrassed by the whole thing.

"I'm fine, House. I was just leaving," she said, extricating herself from Roscoe's grip.

"And I'm trying to convince Dr. Cuddy to let her hair down and live a little and stay," Roscoe said.

And he grabbed her arm again.

"Hey pal. The lady said she wants to leave," House said, taking a menacing step toward him. "Let go of her arm."

Roscoe took one look at House, his cane, and snorted.

"Go back to your table, crutchy," he said dismissively.

"I will, once you let go of her arm."

"House, I'm fine," Cuddy said. "I can handle this."

"Oh, so now I need to be handled?" Roscoe said. There was still something merry in his voice, like he hadn't noticed that the situation had escalated into something rather tense.

"When a lady says she wants to go, you let her go," House said, staring him in the eye. This Roscoe guy easily had 60 pounds on him, but House never backed down from a bully.

"I said go back to your table, Tiny Tim," Roscoe said. "Before I make you."

"House. . ." Cuddy said. She put a hand protectively on his shoulder. "Let it go."

But House was already in too deep.

"Was that a Charles Dickens reference?" he snarled. "You know how to read? The wonders never cease!" Then he thought about it: "You probably just saw it in a Saturday morning cartoon."

Now Roscoe stood up. He was built like a truck.

"Back off, Citizen Cane."

"Now that's more like it. You do realize that there was no actual cane in that movie? Different spelling and everything."

"Sit back down, Nancy," Roscoe said, stepping toward him.

"Funny you calling me Nancy, since a 'roid freak like you probably has nuts the size of raisins."

Roscoe stepped toward House, pressed two fingers hard against his chest.

"I said sit the fuck down, Nancy."

"Make me!"

And without even realizing what he was doing, House reared back and punched Roscoe in the jaw.

It all happened very quickly, Roscoe barely seemed to register the blow and began pounding on House's face and chest.

House staggered, fell to the ground.

"Stop!" Cuddy screamed. "Roscoe, stop!"

Roscoe was now kicking at House's chest and groin and House was curled in a fetal position, trying to protect himself from the onslaught.

"Who's the big man now?" Roscoe was screaming. "Who's the big man now, you fucking crippled faggot!"

"Help us!" Cuddy screamed.

Finally, about three guys were able to leap on Roscoe and pull him off House, who was bleeding from his nose and mouth and writhing on the floor in agony.

Cuddy rushed to his side.

"House," she said. She went to touch his face, but he brushed her hand away violently.

"Leave me alone," he said. He had tears in his eyes, that he hastily wiped away. He tried, unsuccessfully, to stand up. Finally, two more guys helped House to a chair. He was having a hard time drawing a full breath.

Cuddy went to dab his mouth with a tissue, but he wouldn't let her. He snatched the tissue out of her hand, did it himself. It immediately filled with blood. She went to hand him another tissue, but he again pushed her hand away.

"Somebody call the police," Cuddy said.

"No!" House said, still gasping for breath.

"_No_?"

"I punched him first," House said.

"Yeah," Roscoe said. He was still being held back. But the guys had loosened their grip. He had completely vanquished and humiliated his enemy. No point in more bullying. "He punched me first."

"Yeah, and you're a real macho guy beating up a cripple," the female bartender said.

House winced—and Cuddy wasn't sure if it was from pain or humiliation. Probably both.

"House, everyone here saw what he did to you," Cuddy said gently. "He assaulted you."

"We had a fight. He won," House said.

"He was kicking you when you were already down."

"It's called winning a fight."

"He could've killed you! We have witnesses"

"Well, I'm not pressing charges," House said stubbornly. His voice still sounded funny. Cuddy wondered if he had lost a tooth.

She gave up. Turned to Roscoe.

"Well, guess what, Roscoe? Dr. House may not want to press charges. But you'll never set foot in Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital Again. You're fired."

"You'll be hearing from my lawyers," Roscoe said—and he stormed out of the bar.

"Don't come back, asshole!" the bartender yelled after him.

She poured some bourbon into a shot glass, handed it to one of the guys who had been holding back Roscoe. "Here, give this to him," she said, gesturing toward House.

The guy gave House the drink. He gulped it gratefully. Then he stood up. He held the table for support.

"Somebody get him his cane!" someone said.

House's cane was found under the bar and handed to him. Then he slowly, creakily started toward the door. Cuddy followed him. He had shaken her off enough times to know that she couldn't try to help him walk, but she hovered alongside him.

When they finally got outside, she said: "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No, you're not," he said.

"House, you're in bad shape. You might've broken some ribs. Please let me take you to the hospital."

"I'm a doctor, remember? I think I would know if I had broken any ribs," House said.

"At least let me drive you home, make sure you get inside okay," she said.

"Cuddy, I'm fine."

She went to touch his arm. He flinched.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted.

She was slightly taken aback by the anger in his voice.

"Please House. Let me help you."

"Cuddy, I'm fine," he said, a bit more evenly this time. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Okay," she said, uneasily, and watched as he limped to his car, opened the door and got in.

She finally gave up and headed to her own car. As soon as she pulled out of the parking lot House slumped against the steering wheel, barely able to sit up, and got on his cell phone.

"Wilson, come get me. I think I'm about to pass out."  
######

The next day, he called in sick.

Two days later, he showed up late for the DDx. When he sat down, his team gaped at him. His lip was cracked, there was a cut over his eye, and it was obvious by the way he was gingerly walking that he could barely move his torso.

"What the hell happened to you?" Chase said.

"I tripped in the shower," House said.

"Was the shower a black belt in karate?" Taub said.

"I don't want to talk about it," House mumbled.

"Are you okay? Are you sure you should be at work? Do you want to lie down?" Masters said, all concerned.

"What part of: _I don't want to talk about it_ don't you understand?" House growled.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to bite my head off."

There was the sound of a woman clearing her throat.

They all looked up: Cuddy.

"I need a moment alone with House," she said.

Four pairs of eyes shot to House.

"Go run tests," House said to them.

"What tests?" Masters said. "We haven't begun the differential yet."

"I don't know…maybe the LSATs or a Driver's Ed exam. Or wait! Here's a bright idea: Why not do an X-ray and a pulmonary function test since our patient clearly has some sort of problem with _his lungs_?"

They exchanged looks and quickly scattered.

Cuddy took in House's appearance.

"You shouldn't have come in today," she said. "If for no other reason, you'll scare the patients."

"I always scare the patients," he said.

Cuddy pursed her lips.

"Are you okay? It hurts just to look at you."

"I'm fine," he said.

"Are you taking anything for the pain?"

"Yes, as you well know, I'm taking vicodin."

"I guess I stepped into that one," she said, sheepishly.

"Yeah."

"House, I wanted to say. . .thanks for coming to my aid last night. Roscoe was starting to scare me."

"Oh yeah, I was a real fucking hero," House muttered.

"You were, House. You defended me."

"Any time you need someone to get their ass kicked and cry like a little girl, I'm here for you."

"House," she went to touch his shoulder, but he swatted her hand away. And even that tiny amount of movement, had him almost gasping in pain.

She lifted his shirt, without waiting for his permission.

His ribs were taped.

"You _did_ break your ribs!"

"Just a few of them."

"House!"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You should take the rest of the week off. I can stop by after work, make you dinner, bring you some groceries."

"I don't need your pity," he said.

"This isn't pity," she said. "It's gratitude."

"I don't need that either. What I really need is for you to leave so I can do my job."

She stared at him.

"So that's it? Nothing has changed between us?"

"Why would anything have changed?"

His eyes were even glassier than usual. He must've taken half a bottle of vicodin.

"No reason," she said, slightly hurt.

She looked at him again, stupidly feeling like she was about to cry. Then she left.

_To be continued. . . _


	2. Chapter 2

About a week after the incident in the bar, Cuddy was called for a consult in the clinic.

She strode purposefully down the hall, entered Exam Room 2.

Wilson was sitting on the exam table, his legs dangling.

Cuddy stopped in her tracks, looked around the room.

"Where's the patient for the consult?" she asked.

"There isn't one," Wilson said.

Cuddy frowned.

"Wilson, if you have an itch 'down there' I think it would be better if you asked one of your male friends to examine you."

Wilson smiled self-consciously, hastily hopped off the table.

"No, it's not that. I wanted to talk about House and I figured this was the last place on earth he'd find us."

"Ahhh," Cuddy said. "What about House? Is he okay? Healing well?"

"The physical wounds, yes. The emotional ones…I'm not so sure. He's been extra dark and moody lately, if you can imagine such a depressing creature. Which leads me to wonder: What really happened that night at O'Riley's?"

Cuddy narrowed her eyes.

"He didn't tell you?"

"He just said that he. . ."

". . .didn't want to talk about it," she finished for him.

"Yeah."

Cuddy sighed, hopped on the exam table herself. Wilson made an extreme effort not to stare at her legs.

"That Roscoe guy was getting a little handsy with me—nothing overtly aggressive, but he definitely crossed a line."

"And House didn't like that."

"He was looking out for me."

"Like always," Wilson said, with a tiny smile. "So what happened?"

"They exchanged words."

"And by exchange words, you mean House insulted him?"

"More or less. And Roscoe was very dismissive of House in a kind of, well, emasculating way, I guess you could say. Calling House 'Tiny Tim'—that sort of thing."

"Uh boy. . ."

"Yeah."

"And then, it all kind of happened in a blur—House punched Roscoe. At least I think he punched him first. Which, of course, was an idiotic thing to do—Roscoe is a beast. And then next thing you know, House is on the ground, kind of curled in a fetal position, and Roscoe is kicking him and taunting him."

"Oh God."

"Yeah, saying stuff like, 'Who's the big man now'? Calling him a fucking faggot. . . You have to remember, Roscoe's not exactly a Wildean wit."

"And the whole bar saw it?" Wilson said, wincing a bit.

"Yeah."

"And, of course," Wilson said. "The worst part is—_you_ saw it."

"It was horrible," Cuddy said. "I blame myself. I should've walked away from Roscoe the minute he started flirting with me. I'm the reason House broke four ribs."

"Poor House. No guy likes getting beaten up in front of the woman he" —he was going to say _loves_, but thought better of it—"used to be in a relationship with," he said instead.

"And then the bartender called him a cripple," Cuddy said. "She didn't mean it in a nasty way. But I'm sure it was just like rubbing salt on the wounds."

"Jesus, no wonder House is depressed."

"The thing is, House never cared what anyone thought of him before," Cuddy said. "Why start now?"

"He's a man, Cuddy. Like any other man. There's only so much humiliation one guy can take. "

"I don't think House should feel humiliated. Roscoe's the one who should be humiliated. House was a hero."

"He doesn't see it that way."

"Men and their stupid machismo," Cuddy said, shaking her head.

Wilson smiled sadly.

"Gregory House is the bravest man I know," Cuddy said. "I mean that seriously. He doesn't back down from anyone or anything. To me, he has the courage of a lion. Any time I'm in a situation that intimidates me, you know what I ask myself? What would House do?"

"Ha, come to think of it: Me too," Wilson said, with a slight chuckle. "And then usually I come to my senses."

"We don't all get to be House—saying and doing whatever we want, whenever we want. But I do wish he knew how much I admired him," Cuddy said.

"Then you should tell him," Wilson said.

"He won't let me. He's so angry at me Wilson. He won't let me in at all. Not to thank him. Not to apologize. Nothing."

"Give him time," Wilson said. "He'll come around."

"I hope so," Cuddy said. "Because I want to be there for him. Just like he was there for me. And all he does is push me away. It's like he hates me or something."

Wilson rolled his eyes a bit

"We both know he doesn't hate you, Cuddy."

"Maybe _you_ know that," Cuddy said, hopping down from the table. "I don't know anything anymore."  
#####

At the end of the day, Wilson went by House's office to check up on him, but he was nowhere to be found.

His team was already gone for the day, but Wilson saw Lou, the janitor.

"Did Dr. House leave for the day?" he asked.

"I saw him heading toward the gym with a duffel bag earlier," Lou said.

"Huh," Wilson said.

He made his way to the basement, where the employee gym was located.

And there was House, dressed in baggy blue shorts and a heathered gray t-shirt, hovering over a bench press with some heavy free weights.

He slid the weight onto the bar. Then noticed Wilson.

"You're right on time, Jimmy boy. Spot me."

He lay down on the bench, situated himself under the weights. He must've had 200 pounds of weight on the bar.  
Wilson gaped at him.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Quite the opposite. My mind's just fine. It's my body I want to work on."

"You'll kill yourself."

"You don't need your legs to bench press, Wilson. That's the beauty of it. You're lying down. _On a bench_."

He grabbed the bar, prepared to lift it.

Wilson ran over and pressed hard on the bar, so House couldn't raise it.

"Oh no you don't!" he said.

"I don't think you quite understand the concept of 'spotting' someone'" House said.

"I'm not spotting you, because you're not lifting this weight," Wilson said.

"It's a little heavy, but I think I can do it," House assessed. "We gimps have pretty good upper body strength."

"I'm not worried about your leg, you moron. You have broken ribs. You'll collapse a lung—or worse."

"They're healing nicely."

"Oh really?" And he gave House a tiny poke in the ribs.

"Ouch! You asshole, that hurt!"

"I barely touched you House. Get up. You're not doing any bench pressing today."

House rolled his eyes a bit, but slid out from the under the bar.

He wandered over to the punching bag.

"At least hold this bag steady for me. Or is that too much to ask?"

Wilson reluctantly held the bag still, as House angrily punched at it. There was something insanely determined in his eyes. Every time he took a swing, though, he winced in pain. Wilson wasn't sure if it was his leg, his ribs, or both.

"I'm letting go, House," he said, just as House was about to throw a punch.

"Now _that's_ how you break another rib," House said. But he managed to pull up before swinging at the dangling bag.

Wilson stared at House sympathetically.

"House, Roscoe Davis is 240 pounds of pure muscle. And I'm not including his head. There's not a guy in this whole hospital who could've taken him. Not me, not Chase, not even Foreman. Hell, I would've run out of the bar crying for my mommy before I even let the guy touch me."

"You're not exactly the standard of masculinity I aspire to," House said.

"Now that's just mean," Wilson said.

House shrugged. Then he gave Wilson a sideways look.

"Wait a second. How'd you even know it was Roscoe who beat me to a pulp? I never told you."

"It was a pretty safe guess."

House folded his arms.

"You've been talking to Cuddy."

Wilson sighed.

"She's worried about you."

"Did she tell you what a fucking pussy I was? Crying on the floor like a baby?"

"She doesn't see it like that."

"Of course not," House said sarcastically. Then, trying to keep his voice casual: "So how _does _she see it?"

"She called you a hero. Said, and I quote, you have the courage of a lion."

"Shut up!"

"I'm serious."

"She probably just said that because she knew you'd tell me and she's trying to make me feel better."

"And if that's true, what's so horrible about that?"

"Nothing," House said, looking down at his sneakers. "Besides, this has nothing to do with Roscoe. I just have a little steam that I need to blow off."

"I know," Wilson said, unconvincingly.

"I mean it."

"I know," Wilson repeated.

"So if you're not going to spot me and you're not going to hold the punching bag, can you at least leave me alone and let me work things out on my own?"

"Just for the record, House, I think you spend a little too much time _working things out on your own_. There are people that care about you."

"Yeah, like who?"

"Me for one. Cuddy for another."

House snorted.

"Cuddy doesn't care about me," he said.

"She does House. She's worried sick about you. She wants to be there for you."

For a second, it looked like House was about to cry. Then he snapped out of it.

"Thanks for the sermon, Dr. Phil. Now get out of here before I decide to punch _you _instead of this bag_._"  
#####

A week later, House's phone rang at 10 o clock.

He took note the familiar number, sighed a bit, and answered.

"Yeah," he said, officiously.

"It's me," Cuddy said.

"Me who?" House said.

Never giving an inch.

"You know who this is."

"What do you want Cuddy?"

"First off, how are you feeling?"

He had almost managed to go a whole day without some concerned do-goer asking him how he was feeling. Almost.

"Just ducky."

Cuddy sighed.

"I wanted to let you know that I arranged for a car to take us to the lawyer's office."

As promised, Roscoe Davis had sued the hospital for wrongful firing. The hospital legal team had set up a meeting in the offices of Roscoe's lawyers. All parties were hoping to settle out of court.

"Actually, I thought I'd take my bike," House said.

On the other end, Cuddy closed her eyes. It was like talking to a complete stranger.

"It would be better if we came together—put up a united front."

"If you insist."

"I do."

"Okay," House said.

"Two o clock. At the main entrance."

"See ya then, boss."  
####

She was pleased to see that he was wearing a suit and tie. She had almost reminded him to dress appropriately on the phone, but didn't want to press her luck. House just seemed so angry with her these days.

In the car ride over, they drove in near silence, with House practically wedged against the door so there was no chance of touching her.

"I'm strangely nervous," Cuddy admitted.

Usually this would be House's cue to comfort her—or at least make a joke.

Instead, he looked out the window and shrugged.

When they got to the law offices, Cuddy approached the front desk.

"We're here from Princeton Plainsboro," she said.

"They'll be with you in a minute," the receptionist said. And she gestured for the waiting area where, much to Cuddy's dismay, Roscoe Davis was already sitting, flipping through a copy of Sports Illustrated.

House saw him and visibly tensed.

_Was he actually scared of this guy?_ Cuddy thought. Of course he was. He'd been traumatized by him. It was hard sometimes for Cuddy to remember that House was human. In some ways, he seemed invincible to her.

Roscoe looked up when he saw them, gave a derisive chuckle, and looked back down.

Cuddy had an incredible urge to take House's hand, which she resisted.

"They're ready for you," the receptionist said. And led them into the conference room.

Cuddy and House sat with the PPTH lawyers on one side of the table; Roscoe sat with his lawyers on the other.

After a few opening remarks from both parties—this wasn't a trial, they explained; just a fact-finding meeting and maybe a chance to reach some sort of mutually acceptable agreement—Roscoe was asked to tell his side of the story.

"I was at O'Riley's, minding my own business, talking to Dr. Cuddy here, and Cassius _Gay_ over there decided to come over and act like a big shot and deck me."

"That's not even close to what happened!" Cuddy protested.

"Just wait, Dr. Cuddy, you'll get your turn," one of Roscoe's lawyers said.

Cuddy looked at House. She couldn't believe he'd let that Cassius Gay comment slide. House was always the first to accuse homophobes of being closeted gays. Instead, he sat silently, scribbled something she couldn't make out on a pad of paper.

"So you're saying it was completely unprovoked?" Roscoe's lawyer said.

"Apparently, they used to date. And Special Olympics here got jealous. Which is why one should never date an employee. Especially a crippled one who can't defend himself."

"Ironic statement from a guy who was hitting on me," Cuddy said.

"I wasn't hitting on her, I was just being friendly," Roscoe said.

"Was grabbing my arm part of being friendly?"

Roscoe grinned, like she was totally overreacting and the whole thing was just a big joke.

"Dr. House, what's your perspective on what took place that night?"

House tapped his pencil on the pad.

With great effort, he looked Roscoe in the eyes.

"I didn't like the way he was touching her," he said.

"Did Dr. Cuddy ask for your help?"

"No."

"Did she seem to be in distress?"

"Not explicitly. But I know her. She was uncomfortable."

"I was more than uncomfortable," Cuddy said. "I was getting scared. And House came to my rescue."

She gave House a grateful look, but he didn't return her gaze.

"And then what happened?" Roscoe's lawyer said.

"Insults were exchanged," House said.

"As you can see, Mr. Davis thinks it's hilarious to make fun of another man's handicap," one of the PPTH lawyers said.

"And then?"

House glanced at Cuddy.

"I punched him."

"Not before he pressed his fingers on your chest in a very threatening way!" Cuddy said.

"And I threw the first punch."

"And then?"

"We fought."

Roscoe snickered.

"That's one way to describe it," he said, under his breath.

"According to Dr. Cuddy's statement, he assaulted you."

"He, uh, won the fight," House said.

"I have witnesses that say Mr. Davis was kicking Dr. House when he was already down. That's not winning a fight. That's assaulting a helpless man," the PPTH lawyer said.

"Open to interpretation," House muttered.

Cuddy stared at him: _Was he kidding with this?_

Roscoe gave House a half-admiring look. He'd say one thing for this crippled prick: He took his beating like a man.

The PPTH lawyers huddled for a second. Then the lead lawyer said: "We have sworn affidavits from witnesses at the bar that Mr. Davis did, in fact, assault Dr. House. And we have Dr. Cuddy's testimony that Mr. Davis was behaving in an inappropriate way. Despite Dr. House's interpretation of the events, we think that's more than grounds for his dismissal. However, we're willing to strike a deal to avoid protracted court time and further legal expenses on both sides."

"We're all ears," Roscoe's lead lawyer said.

"A full year's severance pay. That's more than generous."

"With full benefits?" Roscoe asked.

"Yes, with full benefits."

Now Roscoe's lawyers huddled.

"We'll take the deal," they said, all smiles.

"I never agreed to this!" Cuddy said.

"Dr. Cuddy, just let us do our jobs," the PPTH lead lawyer said.

Cuddy gritted her teeth, nodded.

Then they addressed the table: "So it's acceptable for all parties?"

"There is one small thing," House said.

He pulled a stack of papers out from under the notepad he had been scribbling on.

"What's that Dr. House?" Roscoe's lawyer said.

"Is it still law that all registered sex offenders have to file with the State of New Jersey?"

"_What?_" Roscoe's lawyer said.

Roscoe turned white.

"I said, it is still law for all registered sex offenders to file with the State of New Jersey? Because _B._ Roscoe Davis here was convicted for rape 10 years ago. Spent two years in the Louisiania State Penitentiary, as a matter of fact. Thought that might preclude him from being Head of Security at a major hospital. . .Also, his first name is actually Bertram, which is just amusing."

Everyone stared at House with their mouths open.

"What proof do you have?" Roscoe's lawyer sputtered.

"Umm, court records. Legal documents. Newspaper clippings. Nice mug shot, by the way, Bertram. . .The works."

House slid the papers over to Roscoe's lawyers and leaned back triumphantly.

Roscoe was sitting in his chair, positively shaking with anger.

The lawyers looked over the papers in dismay.

"Obviously, this changes everything," the PPTH lawyers said.

"Yeah, I thought it might be pertinent," House said with a shrug.

And Cuddy beamed.

#####

The offer was taken off the table and Roscoe's lawyers noted that they were legally bound to make sure he registered properly as a sex offender with the State of New Jersey.

Once in the hallway, Roscoe approached House menacingly.

"You just pissed off the wrong guy."

"What are you going do? Beat me up again? _Rape_ me this time?"

"Who knows what I'll do? Enjoy looking over your shoulder for the rest of your miserable life."

"And good luck getting a bank loan or a job, criminal!" House shouted after him, as his lawyers ushered him away.

Cuddy sidled up to House, took his arm.

"You were amazing in there," she said.

"Thanks," he said, shaking himself free.

She tried not to register the hurt.

"Maybe I can buy you a drink?" she said hopefully. "To celebrate our victory?"

"Naaa, not today," he said. "I'm actually in the middle of a big case at a work."

She knew for a fact that was a lie. House was between cases.

"Okay," she said. "Maybe some other time."

"Yeah," he said. "Some other time."

####

That night, at about 9 o clock, there was a knock on House's door.

He peered through the peep hole, rolled his eyes a bit, and opened it.

"What do you want, Cuddy?"

She was bundled up from the cold. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were red. She smelled of fresh cold air.

"Hi," she said, somewhat sheepishly.

He ignored her.

"I wanted to talk. . . and I knew if I called you'd just find some new excuse to hang up on me."

"What do you want to talk about?" he said, impatiently.

"Can I come in?"

He sighed, gestured in an overly formal way for her to come in.

"You want a drink?" he said, dutifully.

"That would be nice," she said, rubbing her hands together. "Something alcoholic might warm me up a bit. It's cold out there."

He got a glass, poured her some scotch.

"Here," he said, practically shoving it at her.

Without being invited, she sat down on his couch. He reluctantly sat down next to her.

"I wanted to say how amazing you were today in that conference room."

"I know. You said that already."

"And it got me thinking," she said, ignoring him. "How much I miss being proud of you."

"I'm sorry I've given you no reason to be proud of me lately," he said, edgily.

"No, that's not what I meant. I am proud of you, all the time. But I miss feeling like a team. I miss feeling like your accomplishments are _my_ accomplishments, you know? I miss _basking_ in you. Does that make any sense at all?"

It actually made perfect sense to him. When they were dating he felt the exact same way. So proud that this dazzling creature was his. Sometimes, the pride overwhelmed him.

He shrugged.

"I dunno," he said.

"I used to feel like, together, we could take on the world," Cuddy said.

House's shoulders sagged a little. He took a hasty gulp of his own drink.

What the hell did she want from him?

"And your point?" he said.

"I don't have a point. It's just that . . . ever since that night at O'Riley's, I've been missing you so much. Wanting to thank you. Wanting to comfort you. Wanting to. . .hold you."

And she leaned over and began lightly stroking his face.

He stared at her.

She closed her eyes, kissed him on the mouth.

He didn't kiss back, but he didn't resist either. He kept perfectly still, almost frozen. He was looking at her, warily.

"What was that?" he said, when she pulled away.

"I honestly don't know," she admitted.

"Wrong answer," he said.

"I'm sorry. You're right," she said, getting up. "This was a stupid idea."

She put her drink down, got her coat, and walked to the door.

"House?" she said.

"What?"

"When are you going to stop hating me? Because it really kind of sucks."

And she started to leave.

He got up from the couch and moved with surprising alacrity to the door. He slammed it shut before she could exit.

"I don't hate you," he said.

"You could've fooled me," she said.

"Cuddy, what do you want from me?" He still had one arm holding the door shut. He was leaning over her.

"I don't want anything," she said, meekly. "I just. . .want to feel close to you again."

"You don't get to feel close to me again. You broke up with me. Remember?"

"I remember," she said. "Like you'd ever let me forget."

"You just don't get it, do you?" he said.

"Get what?"

"Forget it," he muttered.

"I don't get what?" she repeated.

He looked at her, exhaled, took his hand off the door.

"That I'd rather get my ass kicked 10 times over by Roscoe fucking Davis than feel the pain of . . ." his voice trailed off.

_Having her break his heart_.

"House," she said.

She reached over and gave him a hug. And finally, instead of resisting, he hugged her back.

His whole body seemed drained of its tension.

She rubbed his back. And then her hand moved under his tee-shirt and was rubbing his bare skin. And his back felt so deliciously warm and soft to her touch.

"Cuddy, what are you doing to me?" he said. And like a defeated man, he slammed her up against the door frame and began greedily kissing her.

Quickly, layers of clothing were shed, and they made their way to the bedroom.

"Your ribs?" Cuddy said, as he climbed on top of her—all in now, panting a bit, kissing her breasts and her throat and her lips, wriggling out of his pants.

"They're fine," he said—and they both gasped a bit, out of relief, and because it felt so good and right—when he was inside her.

Despite their mutual eagerness, there was something tender, and almost melancholy, about their lovemaking. House stayed on top the whole time, kissing her eyelids and her lips and her cheeks, murmuring her name. Both were wondering the same thing: Was it the start of something. . . or the end of something?

"God, I love you," he said, with a stuttered sigh, when he came. And then he rolled off her, realized what he had just said.

"Shit," he said.

She took his hand. "It's okay. I love you, too."

He looked at her plaintively.

"But do you want to _be_ with me?" he said.

"I don't know House. All I know is that I'm happier right now, in this exact moment, than I've been in four months."

"Me too," he admitted.

"So it's a start," she said contentedly.

Then she shot up.

"Shit!" she said. Naked, she reached across House's body and grabbed his alarm clock. "It's midnight. I told the babysitter I'd be home by 11."

With her ass right in front of him and the friction of her naked body against his, he was getting a fresh boner.

He began caressing her ass.

"Mmmm, that feels good," she said, despite herself.

"You feel good," he said.

She straddled him and kissed him passionately on the mouth. Within seconds, he was back inside her. (As if they were going to get away with having sex only one time when they hadn't slept together in months.)

Afterwards, now both exhausted and sated and somewhat sticky with each other's sweat, she kissed the area over his eye, then the corner of his lips, then, gingerly, his rib cage.

"What are you doing?" he murmured.

"Something I've wanted to do for weeks," she said. "I'm kissing your wounds."

THE END


End file.
